You Lied
by Purple.H
Summary: House's parents are in town. House annoys his father when he does the right thing. hurt comfort fic. please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

"You lied!" John House roared at his son

"Everybody lies," Greg House answered. He paused to pick up his coffee before giving his father a challenging look, "Which one are you talking about?" he asked unconcerned as he used the whiteboard for support. His father glared at him furiously. They were always good at rubbing each other the wrong way.

The younger doctors in the room held their breath. This had been brewing all week. House's father had brought one of his friends to see his genius son, the doctor. Things had finally climaxed last night when House had discovered something about his patient, and then used it to his advantage. House figured out the patient's problem, and they were able to begin treatment.

"You said he was …" House's father fell silent, unable to say it. It was just too wrong and disgusting to him.

"Light on loafers?" House asked in his mocking voice. "Bent, queer, a fairy."

"He has a wife!"

"So did Oscar Wilde."

"What!"

"I'm just saying you know… it's possible." House taunted, returning his coffee to the glass table. Deciding he was bored with this argument, he turned back to the whiteboard to ignore his father. He didn't want to give him the satisfaction of his attention. "So, people what could cause headaches, fever, renal failure-"

His angry father cut him off, refusing to be ignored, "You lied, and now you have cost him his good reputation that he has spent years working on!"

"He would have been the queerest marine in the graveyard. I thought he might like to live." Greg unhooked the cane from the whiteboard and limped toward his office. All four sets of eyes followed his progress. He didn't want to get into a huge fight in front of his minions; he might say something he didn't want them to hear. He opted for a tactical retreat into his office, hoping his father wouldn't continue.

"Where are you going?" his dad shouted.

"I have a gun in my office; I'll do him now before he gets a bad rep."

The retried marine quickly grabbed his son's right arm, preventing him from moving with a painful grip. House's eyes dropped to where his father held onto the arm muscles he used to hold himself up.

"Let go of me," Greg warned. Bright blue eyes locked on to each other, both sets ice cold and threatening.

House's fellows looked at each other, trying to decide if they should jump in and say something. Their decision was preempted as the retried marine officer loosened his grip on his crippled son.

"You disgust me," the older man spat.

"Don't worry, the feeling's mutual." House broke the eye contact and walked into his office. He picked up his ball in an attempt to diffuse his anger. Again his father followed him.

"You have embarrassed me and your mother; you are a disgrace to your profession. You are a liar and cheat! You manipulate sick people into getting want you want. I am truly ashamed of you."

"You know, it's traditional to thank the person who saves your friend's life," Greg said sarcastically. "Your flattery is unnecessary I assure you!" he said, throwing the ball to the floor in frustration. He refused to get caught in the argument, turning away from his father to look for a distraction.

"You are going to apologize to him and then tell everyone that you were wrong!" John House yelled, determined to have the final word and discipline his only son.

"Now you want me to lie?" House junior laughed in his father's face, "And forget all the lessons you gave me, no way!" House watched his father stew, knowing the melt down was inevitable.

House enjoyed watching his father get angry, if John House wanted to give himself a heart attack that was his problem. It would serve him right for every single time Greg couldn't sit down without yelping in pain, for every time he made Greg stand in the back yard at attention for hours on end, reciting the Ten Commandments. And for every time he came home and bragged to the guys at how many men he had killed on his last tour in some war zone.

House turned away from the old man, suddenly bored by his game. He didn't want to think about it, he just wanted him to leave. Greg turned his attention to signing some papers on his desk.

"You will do it!" John House roared at his son. That his son was ignoring his presence just fed his temper. The retired marine grabbed his son by his shirt, forcing him to his feet. John's hand shook with rage; he was still strong for a man in his late sixties. He forced his son to look at him. Control, he needed to dominate.

The three fellows looked at each other nervously as the argument turned physical. Cameron jumped to her feet ready to break it up.

"Cameron…" Chase called out. "Don't, it's not worth it. Leave them."

"But," she turned to face Chase.

"What you going to do, Dad? Smack me?" House taunted. "I'm not ten years old anymore, you know. You can't slap me into submission."

House never saw it coming, the hard left fist connected sharply with his jaw. Unbalanced, he crashed into his desk before hitting the floor. Enraged, House senior straddled his son and slammed his right fist into his jaw.

"You piece of shit, ungrateful waste of space!" There was an ugly crack as the old man's knuckles broke. Blood flowed onto the carpet, and smeared on the ex marine's fist from where his old West Point ring cut into his son's face.

Greg was helpless underneath his father's weight. His leg screamed at him, the damaged nerves fired off white-hot pain down his right leg and straight up his back.

Darkness finally floated at the corner of his eyes. He welcomed it, allowing himself to fall.

A/N: Loads of thanks go to Padawan Jan-AQ for all the hard work adjusting both my terrible grammar and punctuation.

PH


	2. Chapter 2

Foreman was the first to react. "Shit!" he launched out of his seat, heading for the door to House's office. Foreman grabbed the old man's shoulders and he pulled the ex marine from his unconscious son, fist still trying to connect with House's still body.

"Hey!" Foreman yelled, "Get off him!" He grabbed House's father round the neck and pulled, dragging him off of his boss. "Call security!"

"House?" Cameron asked kneeling next to her unconscious boss sprawled on the floor. She pulled out her penlight from her lab coat. "Pupils are normal and reactive to light."

"Hi, this is Dr Chase in the diagnostics department," Chase said into the phone. "Yeah I need someone up right away," he said calmly. "Yes, we've had an assault up here." After a brief pause Chase snorted in amusement. "Yeah, on Dr House." He hung up and redialled.

"Mr House, calm down!" Foreman shouted as the old man fought against him. Foreman pushed him roughly through the door, and out into the corridor.

"House, can you hear me?" Cameron asked as she checked his carotid pulse. "House, I need you to open your eyes," she demanded, pulling her stethoscope out her pocket.

"Hey! Calm down Mr House!" Foreman shouted as the old man managed to smack him across the forehead. "Need a little help here!" he forced the old man against the wall, Mr House's fists still flying wildly.

"Yeah, Hi it's Dr Chase up in diagnostics we need a neck brace, backboard and a gurney up here. Poss head and neck injuries on 47 year old male."

"Breathing and pulse are good." Cameron called from the floor, pulling the stethoscope out her ears.

"Yes, vitals are stable." Done with the conversation, Chase slammed down the phone and rushed over to help Foreman. The message about the assault on House must have spread quickly, because two security guards sprinted down the hall within two minutes of Chase's phone call.

"Damn it! Foreman get over here!" Cameron shouted through the open door. "You're the neurologist!"

Foreman left Chase and the guards to deal with Mr House. He hurried around the desk, nearly tripping over the cane that was left abandoned on the floor. He knelt down beside House, pulling out his penlight and began a full neuro exam.

Suddenly there was a shriek from outside. "John! Oh my god, John?" Blythe House came running from down the hall from the elevators to see her husband being manhandled by two big security guards. "What's going on?" she demanded of one of the security guards.

"He assaulted a doctor, ma'am."

Blythe looked into her son's office, two of his team members were knelling behind the desk. She gasped as she caught sight of Greg's legs sticking out from behind it. Without looking at her husband, she turned and walked straight into the office and to her son.

"Mrs House, wait," Chase tried to stop her from entering his boss's office.

"No, blood in ear canals," Foreman announced as Mrs House pushed past Chase.

"Greg?" she gasped at the sight of her son unmoving on the floor between his young employees. Blood spilled to the floor from two fair sized cuts on his face. "Is he okay?"

"We'll know more when he regains consciousness," Cameron replied, looking up at the worried mother, who had positioned herself by House's head to hold it still. "I'm sure he'll be fine, Mrs House."

"Yes," she said, still a little shocked, "He normally is."

Cameron looked at her confused, "What do you mean?"

Blythe took a deep breath; it was no secret that father and son had spent most of Greg's life at each other's throats. "Unfortunately, John and Greg have never got along, and this is the only way John feels he can win an argument."

"To knock him out?" Cameron gasped in shock.

Foreman shook his head. He knew House's family was backward but this was abusive. He made a metal note to get a CT; there was no telling what kind of damage House's father had inflicted before.

"They are both very stubborn."

Foreman and Cameron exchanged looks. They couldn't disagree.

"Genes are a bitch aren't they?" House said rhetorically as he pulled himself up into a sitting position, startling everyone. His hand explored his face, measuring the damage. Blood smeared onto his hand from the lacerations. He looked up at his mum, "He hasn't taken off that ring then."

A small smile appeared on Blythe's face, a mixture of amusement and relief. The one thing that they both hated about John House was that awful ring he got from West Point that he wore religiously on his right hand middle finger.

"Whoa! Take it easy, House," Foreman held his boss' shoulders trying to prevent him from moving any further.

"Get the hell off me!" House growled at his employee. He pushed himself to his feet by leaning heavily on the desk, trying to stay vertical with the sudden wave of extreme dizziness.

"House, look," Foreman tried to reason with him, "You're concussed, you could have a fractured skull. Just take a seat and relax for a while." The last thing he wanted was House collapsing from a haemorrhage and having to drill a hole in his skull to relive the intracranial pressure.

House completely ignored him as he looked round for his father. Swaying slightly, he picked up his cane and limped into the corridor. John House was pinned against the wall by the two security guards, sweating and breathing hard. The old man had mostly given up the fight, exhausted.

Slowly House limped up to his father, and looked down at the old man's right hand. Feeling angry, House was pleased to see that two of his father's knuckles had been broken. He was livid, how dare his father come into his work place and hit him! Blue eyes silently engaged in battle.

But something made House curious. He looked over his father, taking note of everything. No one spoke. The only sound was from Mr House's heavy breathing.

Suddenly, a loud ding at the end of the corridor interrupted the standoff. The doors opened, and the familiar sound of high-heeled shoes walked determinedly up to the scene.

"House? What's going on?" Cuddy asked, trying to break up the tension between him and his father.

Neither looked away, both determined to be the last one standing. Blood soaked House's t-shirt. They both looked a mess, but not ready to give in to each other.

"House, I got a message that said you had been assaulted, what happened?" Cuddy persisted. The Colonel looked like he had just been for a 10-mile jog, sweat soaked his shirt, and his breathing was laboured. Slowly he gave up his fight with the security guards and let himself be supported by them, too tired to continue.

House watched his father. The man had fear in his eyes, no kind off fear that his son could inflict.

"Dr Cuddy, what do you see?" House asked. He did not look away from his father, his face was contorted, running theories through his mind at lighten speed.

Cuddy snorted in surprise at the sudden question, unsure of what he meant.

It didn't matter, he wasn't really looking for an answer. House hopped one step closer to his father, and reached out with his left hand to his father's neck.

After a moment he pulled away and smiled. He had always wanted to do this, but something had held him back.

He swung his left hand back, and then propelled it forwards, hard. 165 Newtons of force rammed straight into the temple. The ex colonel dropped like a stone into the guards' arms, unconscious.

House grunted in pain as he over balanced. Canes and concussion don't mix, he decided. He hit the cold, hard floor for the second time in ten minutes.

A/N: Okay this is a new and improved, edited version of the 2nd chapter. I hope it it's better than the first and second attempts. Thank you for all the support that everyone has given me, you have been a huge help especially from Padawan Jan-AQ who's been absolutely fantastic.

PH


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh, my…" Cuddy never finished her sentence. No sooner had the guards laid House senior on the floor, than House was sliding across it towards his father.

Suddenly alarmed at how close the second attacker was to his victim, the Security guards did what comes naturally to them, forcefully grabbing House to separate both victims.

Cameron ran to his aid, "House?" she asked worriedly, but he didn't bother to answer. Instead, he pulled her stethoscope from her lab coat, leaving crimson blood decorating the pocket. _Why was it that the smallest amount of blood on your hands makes it look like you just slaughtered a goat?_ he wondered lazily to himself as he placed the earplugs into to his ears.

He placed the drum over his father's heart to listen intently. There it was- the dysrhythmias, prolonged ventricular tachycardia. Not great, but not the end of the world. His father would live, for now anyway, depending on the underlying cause. House pulled the stethoscope out his ears lazily, and tossed it to land on top of his father's chest.

"Get him 90mg of lidocaine with a procainamide chaser and a date with ECG." House then turned to Cuddy, "We don't want his heart to explode, do we? 178 bpm is a little extreme don't you think?" He wanted to make a dramatic exit, but there was no way he could stand up without looking like a 90 year on speed. The awkward position that he found himself in on the floor had put too much pressure on his already injured leg.

He heaved himself up off the floor, and stormed off into the conference room as best he could, leaving chaos in his wake. His money was on Myocardial ischemia.

House limped up to the sink. He hooked his cane onto the side and gripped the basin with both hands. He pulled out his Vicodin from his pocket and quickly swallowed one, hoping it wouldn't come back up later. Closing his eyes, he allowed one shaky breath to escape. Anger, relief, and forty years of frustration were released in one small breath. He felt exhausted, like he'd just walked up six flights of stairs and had sixty more floors to go.

Turning to look out into the hall, House could see his father being attached to monitors. The hall was full of nurses, and other medical personnel watching the chaos. Cuddy was in her element, ordering his staff around. Turning away, he realised he didn't care.

Slowly, he began to wash the blood away. He swayed, gripping the sink for support as he battled waves of dizziness and nausea.

Blythe grabbed Cameron's arm. Surprised, she looked back at Mrs House, opening her mouth to speak, but Blythe cut her off, "Don't, I'll go," the elder woman said, and walked straight into the conference room.

"Greg" she sighed her hands on hips, "Sweetheart, that was really silly."

He briefly turned to see her firm, but gentle, motherly stare. "I'm sorry," he said softly, turning back to watch blood drip from his chin into the sink.

"What… Greg I don't care you hit him. I'm more worried that you can't stand up!"

"I'm fine," he answered forcefully.

"You're a terrible liar."

House smiled at his mother. It was a pointless lie. There was no way he could hide that amount of pain from her apart from protecting her from the painful truth that he couldn't make it across the room.

"Come on, let's clean you up." House's mother walked over and grabbed some handy paper towels, "I don't think I've ever seen him that angry before."

Greg smiled, "I've had a lot of practice." They giggled together enjoying the moment with each other. This was how their family worked; John would blow up and leave Blythe and Greg to lick their wounds together.

Blythe finished wiping the blood off Greg's face just as Cuddy walked in. Her eyes were furious, readying herself for the battle.

"I'll go see John," Blythe told her son. "I'll see you later Greg." She picked up her bag and left.

House drew himself up to his proper height but the aggressive stance failed, his leg just wouldn't let him.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" Cuddy shouted as she advanced into the conference room.

"What is with people today, is a simple thank you too much?" his asked, gripping the rim of the metal sink. He had been standing for too long. "I save two people's lives in the space of four hours, and both times I get yelled at. I'm the anti-Wilson to keep the universe in balance," he snarled. The effort left him dizzy.

"You didn't have to hit him!" Cuddy cried, shocked.

"He started it!" House whined.

"God, House you're not five!"

"You don't know my father." He took a deep breath, holding back the waves of pain pulsating from his leg. It did not like the two ungraceful landings; it demanded respect and careful treatment and this was his punishment.

"Well, tell me House!" Cuddy yelled. "Tell me why I have to try and stop the police from arresting you, and prevent the media from printing the juiciest medical story since stem cells!"

"He needed to calm down. I calmed him down." House shrugged with effort.

Cuddy stared at him opened mouthed, she was furious. He never thought about the consequences.

"Security will have to notify the police about the assault. So unless you can provide a logical medical argument for why you punched out your father instead of using conventional methods of treatment, you will be charged with assault."

She paused. Looking at him she saw his hands tremble from supporting all of his weight off his right leg. Cuddy knew that it was only a matter of time before he would have to give up his position to sit down. This was when he was most vulnerable. Her eyes dangerous she threatened, "Tell me why you hit him and I will support your argument, and keep the police away."

House looked up from the floor sharply. "What!" he laughed. She wanted a confession, he could provide one. "Do you want to know that my father would lock me out the house for hours in the middle of a Japanese winter? That my Dad, the great Marine pilot, gave me private boxing lessons when I was eight years old?" House sighed and added, "Do what you want Cuddy I don't really care."

Cuddy stood watching her diagnostician as he carefully made his way to the yellow armchair in his office. His progress was slow and awkward, but she understood his need to be alone after a moment like that. Silently, she thanked the architect for the glass walls. She didn't want to leave him only after just having a head injury, but after a confession like that he needed the space to think.

Sighing, she picked up the phone. Three minutes later a nurse arrived in the conference room with the tray of equipment Cuddy had ordered.

"Set it up in there, thank you Helen," she pointed into House's office. The nurse's face quickly turned to disgust as she silently obeyed the Dean of medicine.

Cuddy finished up on the phone and walked determinedly into the office. House was stretched out on his yellow chair. She thought he was asleep, but as she got closer she saw the tension in his body. His breathing was rapid and shallow.

"House," she carefully laid a hand on his arm. He opened his eyes to see her sitting next to him, pulling on some latex gloves. "You need stitches." She said as she inspected the damage to his face. Quietly she sutured his face and applied a dressing to both lacerations. He grumbled as she insisted on performing a neuro exam.

"You have a grade two concussion," she concluded professionally. "I am going to admit you," she said as she pulled off the gloves.

"For a grade two concussion?"

"You're on a high dose of narcotics which can interfere with the results of a neuro exam. I want a CT to make sure there's no swelling, and just to make sure, over night observation. Also an MRI to check for damage to your leg."

"Wow, you must be a like a doctor or something? Dude!" House said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Cuddy continued, used to his comments, "House, how the _hell_ I am I going to keep the police away from you until they decide that you acted in the patient's best interest?" She paused to study his face, it revealed nothing, but his silence did.

She smiled. Hospitalisation with the possibility of some very cool drugs vs. the police with a cold, dark, and uncomfortable cell… it was an easy victory. As long as he was her patient, she had control.

"Bring out the bar-coded bracelet." He half yelled. Standing slowly, a wave of dizziness engulfed him. He tripped trying to regain his balance, shooting white-hot pain up his back. He gasped, trying desperately to suck air into his lungs, without success. He lost to gravity for the third time that day. He crumbled to the floor, welcoming the pain free dark oblivion...

A/n: Once again huge thanks to Padawan Jan-AQ for editing this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Warning**: contains scenes of Child abuse, and mentions of suicide.

Cuddy swore, unflatteringly, as she watched her most prized doctor ungracefully hit the floor. Dropping to her knees beside House's crumbled form, she checked for his pulse. Relieved to discover it was strong. She grabbed his shoulders shaking them gently looking for a reaction.

"House, come on wake up." She cooed nervously, getting no response she rushed into the corridor. "I need some help in here!" She yelled to the nearest nurse's station, a few seconds later a nurse burst into the office. "I'm going to need a backboard and neck brace. Call radiology and tell them to clear the CT schedule I want it as soon as I get there." The nurse ran off to organise what Dr Cuddy had ordered. "And page Dr Foreman!" Cuddy shouted at the retreating nurse's back.

Dr Wilson rushed into the CT prep room as three nurses and Dr Cuddy were changing an unconscious House into a gown before putting him the machine.

"Foreman just paged me, what the hell happened?" He anxiously yelled at Cuddy, as they gently rolled House onto his side to remove his jeans. She turned to look at the shocked oncologist.

"He went a few rounds with his father. He collapsed in front of me in his office about five minutes ago." She turned back to her unconscious employee. "Jesus!" She gasped.

"What?" He walked up behind her following her eyes. "God!" Wilson choked out. Suddenly they both understood why House did anything to avoid his parents. He felt sick, not once had House said anything, not even suggested it.

Wilson walked away. He couldn't bring himself to look as Cuddy revealed more old, long, white scars stretching from his lower back to his buttocks.

Japan, Kadena Air Base(fictional interpretation) July, 1973 

It was beautiful Sunday afternoon by the time they arrived at their destination, The American Air Force base located just outside of Okinawa. Fourteen-year-old Greg was already bored by their new home. It was the same as all the others had been. Normally, most Fourteen-year-old boys would be excited to able to explore a new country. Greg's mother had even tried to get her son inspired about the move. However it was their seventh move and the magic for him was gone.

Greg was fed up by the constant change, never being able to settle in to a school and make long-term friends. Just as he got to know someone his father, a Marine Corps pilot would come home with another transfer order and they would pack up all of their meagre processions and head off to there new home, in yet another new country. All the bases he lived in were the same. Most of the houses were of the same design as well. What country they happened to be in was of little consequence. The only noticeable difference of location was the climate and what language the native people spoke.

By Monday morning all the things he owned where placed tidily in their borrowed furniture. All he really had were his clothes, his beloved record player his father had given him on his thirteenth birthday, and his battered yo-yo that had travelled the world along side him.

His Mom hung their family pictures on the walls and replaced the borrowed curtains, and cushions with her own. It's the little things that make a home, she always told him cheerfully. His father added his own decoration to their home, the trophies and medals he had earned sat in proudly in the centre of the mantelpiece, above the fire.

Most kids his age hadn't even heard of the countries he had lived in. His Mom like normal was very dependable at getting his school record transferred wherever they went. This time he actually hoped that she had forgotten. He didn't want to go to another new school, to be the new kid again. He hated being the new kid. It was exacerbated by the realization that he was smarter than most, if not all, of the kids in his class. Giving the other kids a huge opening to dislike him. He learned to cope with this a while ago, he used his superior intelligence pre-emptively to insult, and otherwise mock his peers before they got a chance, offence is the best defence as his dad would say.

Greg liked his old school in Germany. The kids stayed away from him apart from, Marty. Marty and Greg had been friends for just under a year, before they moved once again. They shared they obsession with comics together. They would often escape the base and run to the nearest town's bookstore to buy the new comics as they came out.

One night a Guard sergeant had caught Greg and Marty during their escape attempt, the new batman comic had released that day. They were both desperate to get their hands on it and had become reckless. Despite Greg's effort to bargain with the sergeant, he had still notified his father. When his father had returned from work that night Greg could tell that he'd been embarrassed by his disobedience. During dinner John House causally discussed the Marines Rules and Regulations, paying particular attention to the paragraph on minors entering and exiting Untied States forces overseas stations. Greg barely touched his supper that night. He kept his mouth shut terrified that he would just provoke him further.

Greg knew that his father had some punishment planned for him. He hated his father for it. He didn't understand why his father couldn't love him, like Marty's father loved Marty, and he was one of three sons. Greg never understood how his father couldn't think of him as special, like his mother did, despite the fact that he didn't want to follow his father into Marines.

Greg had decided a long time ago that he would never let his father push him into a uniform. When he was younger he thought that if he tried really hard to be good his, father would love him. Finally he realised that however much he tried his father would always find fault. Now he did what he wanted and take the consequences. Whatever he did, his father would still be disappointed. He was determined never to allow his father, no matter what they did.

Although, if he was truly honest with himself, he still did things to please his father. Like any child, deep down, he still wanted to be loved and accepted by his father. For the most part, he took the punishments without a word and carried on without letting it affect him.

Once, when they were living in Egypt, he finally decided he'd had enough. His dad was just about to punish when he'd taken off, running, from the house. He managed to get out of the base. Only to spend the next two nights sleeping, rough before he decided to return home. His Mom had been so worried she made him promise never to do it again.

John House waited until his wife had gone out to her pottery class with the other wives of the officers on the base. Once that Gregory had finished all of his homework, John House took him outside into the back yard with a copy of the US Marines Rules and Regulations manual.

"Stand at Attention, boy!" Captain House roared at his son. Greg quickly complied, heels together, arms straight by his side, chest out, and eyes staring into the distance. He stood, body tensed smartly like a proper Marine, although lacking in uniform. His father began to pace in front of him, reading the paragraph that they had been discussing, causally, over their meatloaf and mashed potatoes. His voice clearly filled with anger, once the passage was read, he slammed the book shut. John looked directly at this son and bellowed.

"What does that mean?"

"I can not leave this base without your permission, Sir." He shouted back just like a new recruit. This is how his father liked it, the only punishment he understood and knew how to apply.

"Hold out your hands." Young Greg obeyed, holding out his arms straight in front of him. The Captain placed the heavy, leather bound book into his son hands. Gregory hated this punishment it always made him feel weak, reducing him into a shaking wreck.

"Don't move." His father growled, his eyes boring into Greg. Greg saw only evil in them. He was terrified of what was coming next he couldn't look away. His father's light blue irises softened when they fell upon his mother, but never for him. For him they were always cold, and staring.

The young pilot left his son standing in the back yard holding the heavy, book with his arms straight at 90 to his body. Greg's arms started to shake and burn with effort with keeping the book perpendicular to his body. He couldn't drop the book, as it would make it ten times worst.

Stubbornly he remained upright as long as he could. His father would occasionally return to adjust his position back to a right angle, until eventually the book slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a hard thud. There was nothing he could do to stop it. His muscles where exhausted. Burning with lactic acid, his whole body ached from exertion.

Menacingly, his father returned to the back yard, where his son was standing. Slowly, he picked up the leather bound book. He silently dusted it off before opening and repeating the paragraph had read earlier. The temperature dropped as the sun began to set. Greg felt the chill though his thin sweatshirt, annoyed with himself that he had not thought to put on another thicker one. His father demanded he recite the paragraph verbatim. Whenever he made a mistake, he was left holding the book again, while his father repeated the paragraph from his own memory. This continued until he could recite the passage perfectly.

Life in Japan was about the same as Germany. The base was laid out in pretty much the same way. School was boring and, as usual, he did not fit in with the other boys, although he hadn't tired much. They would be moving on in a few months so there wasn't really that much point.

He joined the school's lacrosse team, and the Football team as well because it would keep his father happy, and he'd do anything to stop the constant steam of snide comments. His father always had something to say, trying to drive his son to do better. He had to be exceptional all the time, doing okay was almost as bad as losing. But then even something exceptional wasn't good enough. Ninety eight percent on a test wasn't good enough, because there was a two percent failure.

Over the years Greg had taken all the punishments from his father, he still wanted to make him proud, to love him the way that other fathers loved their sons. He had mostly given up, realising that his father would never be truly proud of him. But, however irrational, Greg still had a small amount of hope, that one day that could change.

"John, Blythe how are you? Końnichi wa, Greg o-géńki desu ká?" Major Charleston welcomed them into the classroom. Tom Charleston was the station Japanese translator but also taught the Japanese class at the base's school. He was active Marine until his left leg had been blown off in a training accident. As he had grown up in Japan with his father, and the Navy transferred him on a permanent basis, so that he wasn't discharged on medical grounds. John had instantly liked the guy as they met in the officer's bar in the first week that they had moved to the base.

"Greg is a wonderful pupil. I've never had a pupil so talented in many years of teaching." he smiled encouragingly at Greg. As his parents sat down in the Major's office "I would like to teach Greg on a one to one basis as I feel that his natural talent for languages would allow him to become fluent in around three months. What do you think John?"

"Wow, that would be great!" Blythe slipped an arm round her son's shoulders giving him a hug. John House fidgeted uneasily in his chair.

"I'm not sure Tom. He should be working harder on his other subjects so he can get the scholarship to West Point."

"John, West Point really likes applicants to have another foreign language."

"He speaks German." John House said gruffly "I want him to start Cadets this year, which is more important. He needs to focus his energy."

Greg was surprised by the offer. Major Charleston hadn't really talked to him before. The Major had only noticed his flare for the language, after one of the other boys had kicked the back of Greg's chair, just as he was about to sit down at the beginning of a lesson, Greg to landed clumsily, on his butt on the floor. Just as the Major had entered the classroom, unnoticed by Greg who was busy yelling obscenities in Japanese as he pinned offender against the back wall. The Major stopped Greg only after a few minutes of listening too particularly long description of how the unfortunate offender smelt like a monkey's behind. Unfortunately, Greg hadn't got the grammar quite right so as a punishment the Major thought it only fitting that he should complete the sentence properly with the correct grammar a hundred times after class.

"Honey if Greg can do this and all the other things then I think we should take Tom's kind offer." She beamed at the Major, not many people embraced Greg's intelligence, many regarded it with suspicion and distrust especially, children of Greg age.

"It would only be an two hours a week. Surely Greg can squeeze it in somewhere." Tom smiled smoothly, he knew how to back John into a corner, so he could only accept. "It'll keep him out of trouble."

John signed and turned to Greg,

"You better work hard for Major Charleston or you won't be playing lacrosse this season." He growled at his son.

"Yes, sir." Greg wasn't really bothered by the whole issue.

"Good, I'll see you in class tomorrow then Greg." The Major smiled and stood up to shake hands with both of his parents. "You should be proud of son, he is an exceptional student."

"He's a trouble maker." He glared at his son. "But I'll whip him into shape." John House smirked at his friend.

"Oh, John." Blythe smiled exasperated by her husband. "He's just a teenager."

Greg hated how his father would talk about him to his friends. His father was so determined to see the worst in him, that even when he got top marks he would always say that Greg must have an excellent teacher, suggesting that it due to Greg's own hard work or natural ability. Frustrated by the conversation, but knew better than get involved. He stood dumbly by the door, waiting to leave.

The Major was an excellent teacher. True to his word the Major worked Greg hard to reach their three-month goal. They quickly became friends, the Major had a very black sense of humour, which was common in the military. But the Major was different to his father, there was no real cruelty in him. One minute he would be busting Greg's butt for something and a few minutes later he was back telling a sick joke in Japanese. The Major was the only person that Greg could talk to besides his mother, as he treated Greg like an equal.

Occasionally the Major took Greg out into a local farmers town to listen to the Japanese and hear for himself the proper pronunciation. By the end of the second month Greg could hold an almost perfect conversation.

A few weeks later Greg's class was due to go on a trip to visit the surrounding area. For a geography project, they would visit the local farmers in town, to see how America had helped Japan become a healthy, stable nation. After the tour, by their geography teacher Mr Meijin, they where allowed to an hour investigate the town in partners. Needless to say Greg managed to dump his partner quickly and head off on his own to explore.

Greg's attention was suddenly drawn to the end of the long street. Lots of shouting and screaming was coming from a group of children that had been playing with a dog. Suddenly the small dog, ran into the busy road. A little girl chased after it, oblivious to the over laden motorbike. Without braking, the motorbike ploughed into the girl, causing it to spin out of control and launching the rider forward. The little girl was tossed into the air like a rag doll. She hit the asphalt with a soft thud. He watched, as she lay motionless on the road as the traffic weaved to avoid her. Without hesitation, Greg leapt forward, running towards the scene.

The girl was clearly unconscious and bleeding heavily from her left leg. She can't have been more than 8 years old, the delicate skin below the knee had been ripped from the bone like the metal key on a tin of sardines. He fell onto his knees next to the girl, tearing off his coat pushing it into the wound. Desperately he tried to stop the bleeding. One of the only useful bit of knowledge that his father had given him through the stories of battles and war was that you always put pressure on a bleeding wound.

"Tasukete! Tasukete Kudasai!" He screamed for help in Japanese hoping that the pronunciation was correct.

He had attracted a crowd, all looking interested at the young American boy kneeling beside the injured girl. It was about five minutes after the crash when a woman and man turned up, Greg didn't see from which direction but the man clearly was a doctor because he was wearing a bright white lab coat. He was carrying a brown canvas bag with him, on the front it had a large red cross signifying, a medical bag. He pulled out a bright white bandage, tearing it out of the sterile packaging. He shoved Greg out the way lifting up his coat to look at the leg. It was only a brief inspection of the ugly laceration before he applied the dressing, signalling for Greg to tie it up as he went to check on the rider.

Greg tied the dressing tightly in place, keeping the pressure on the wound. The doctor return after a few minutes, motioned Greg to pick her up and follow him. He followed the doctor and the woman who he assumed to be a nurse into whitewashed, brick building. On the sign outside, Greg recognised one word: byouin meaning hospital. He was guided into a clean, white, tiled room. It had three beds all lined up in the centre of the room. At the far end there were double doors leading into another white room. The nurse directed him to lay the little girl on the gurney closest to the doors.

The Doctor had just finished in surgery as, the two military policemen from the base walked in. Greg had been missing for three hours. All of his class had long since returned to school. He hadn't even looked at the time, as he'd watched the Doctor repair the little girl's leg. He stood fascinated at the window of the O.R for two and a half hours watching the surgery. He had spoken with the nurses outside the window. Trying to find out what the doctor was doing. He was so fascinated by the doctor's quick but careful repair. The nurses all so looked surprised, when he questioned them. An American speaking Japanese was very unusual they normally just got interpreters.

Greg didn't notice the MP's walk up to him until one of them touched his shoulder, making him jump. An English-speaking nurse had pointed them in the right direction after they had asked at the front desk. She told them what had happened to the little girl. They weren't impressed when they saw Greg his hands and clothes were all covered with blood, he was still holding on to his blood soaked coat. They grumbled as they dragged him off to the jeep, something about not getting it dirty but Greg wasn't listening. He was to busy thinking about the little girls surgery.

Greg helped his mother cook dinner after he had finished off his homework on the kitchen table. He enjoyed helping her, it was the only time he was really able to spend with her without his father. Greg was just setting the table as his father walked in. He could tell, right way that he was in a bad mood. His father looked over at him after greeting his wife. He was definitely angry with him.

Sudden panic gripped his body as his palms began sweat. He had obviously been informed that Greg had gone missing for over three hours, in town. Dinner was uncomfortable, his father proceeded to demanded an explanation for why his son did not return with his class, and why he was covered in blood.

"You should have returned to the bus at the time you were told." His father snarled as they finished dinner. "You wasted the MP's time. You will write a letter of apology to your teacher, the Military Police and your class for make them late. I want it done before we go out to the officers club tonight."

"Why, because I saved a girls life?" Greg shouted exasperated at his father. "I'm not sorry!"

"Her kind would have taken care of her. You had no business getting involved."

"Her kind?… She's Human, we're all her kind!" He yelled outraged.

"She's Japanese!"

"God, Dad the war was 30 years ago, move on!" He had gone to far. John House grabbed his son round the neck and forced into the wall.

"John!" Blythe Screamed at her husband in horror.

"Your Grandfather fought in that war, would you tell him to move on?" Greg gasped in shock as his father pinned him to the wall. Ignoring his wife's yell.

"You owe him your freedom." A sudden bolt of fear shot through Greg. His father's eyes burned in anger, as he dragged his son outside and locked the door behind him.

An hour later his father came out into the backyard, where Greg sat huddled by the fence it was a cold night. He had wanted to run, go anywhere but here. He knew that his father would wait until his mother had gone to the wives night as she always did on a Tuesday. But then if he had run his father would be worst. He would be furious because he would have to go looking for him. He had no choice. No other place to go. In the end his father would get him wherever he was. This time he was older and nearly as tall as his father. He could stand up for himself and not let his father get him again.

"I want an apology." His father stood in front of his son looking down at him, anger still burning in his eyes. Greg stood up, Adrenaline burst into his bloodstream as he looked into his father's wild eyes. He was livid. Taking a deep breath Greg built up the courage to stand up to his fearsome, father.

"I will not apologise for saving the girls life. I was right to help her." He stared into his father's eyes, disobediently, challenging him to go further. Greg could feel his anger. The tension between them grew his father said nothing. The silence was scaring him. He had never made his father this angry before, but he ploughed on anyway. Determined that he was going to defend himself this time. "I'm not going to apologise to a murderer like you! You don't even know how many you've killed!"

John House abruptly threw his son to the ground. Greg landed heavily on the frozen ground. Adrenaline replaced fear he fumbled trying to get up. He looked up to his father, deciding on his target.

"You ungrateful waste of space!" the Marine officer furiously shouted at his son "Get up!"

Greg flew at his father, his right fist connected hard with left side of his father's jaw. His father stumbled backwards in surprise. A thin line of blood began to flow from the older man's lip. Greg stood proud. He had left his mark on his father. He was glad that he had caused his father some pain, even if he would be getting it a thousand times worst. It was worth every second, watching his father's face turn from furiously angry, to utter surprise.

Greg's triumph didn't last long. Once the initial shock had worn off, his father returned the compliment. Blood exploded from his nose as Greg was thrown into the wooden fence. In the dark, he hadn't seen his father's fist flying towards him. His head smacked into the frozen ground, pain pulsed round his head, leaving the whole world spinning.

Greg struggled to his feet, trying to control the wave of dizziness. He watched lazily, as his father removed his belt from his uniform. His mind didn't process what was going on. His eyes followed the kaki belt with its highly polished buckle as it glinted in the moonlight. Slowly he realised what as going to happen. "Take off your clothes." Captain House ordered.

"No!" He slurred, lazily. He tried to defiantly, walk away, but his father pulled him back slapping, him round the face.

"Take off your clothes." He repeated forcefully, ripping off the shirt his son was wearing.

"No. Get off me!" Greg screamed in his father's face. Just the effort of screaming made him light-headed. He felt as something hard knock into his jaw and sent him flying to the ground again. Dazed he lay on the frozen ground, half conscious. Far away he felt his father pick him up, dragging him over the backyard porch steps by the belt of his pants. He tried to get away, thrash out and hit his father. He lay with his head resting on the top frosty step, with his legs touching the bottom. Weakly, he tried to crawl up into the house, but his father just forced him down harder, crushing him into the steps with his heavy boot between Greg's shoulder blades. The corners of the step dug into his chest, as he desperately fought to get enough oxygen into his lungs.

Panic filled his brain as cold fingers slowly undid his brass buckle of his belt and forcefully pulled down his pants and underwear. Struggling frantically, trying to away, each time he struggled his father would put more pressure on his shoulders, preventing Greg from being able to breath. Eventually exhausted from the battle, Greg surrendered. He lay on the back steps of his house half naked, with his pants round his ankles. Slowly, his father removed his boot-shod, foot from Greg's shoulders allowing him to gasp for breath. He lay there accepting his fate like always he was defeated. He had no more energy left to fight. His father had won. Again he shown Greg that he had absolute control over him.

Smack! The metal tipped end of his father's belt slapped hard across his lower back. He gasped in pain and surprise. Before he could compose himself his father struck him again. Greg felt tears sting his eyes as each new strike amplified the last. Blood slowly flowed from his lip down his chin and dripping onto his bare pale skin, as he clamped his jaw on it to stop himself screaming. He didn't want to give his father the satisfaction of making him scream. He had to 'Take it like a man.' His father voice echoed round his skull.

He began to shiver. His whole body began to feel numb from the cold night. He welcomed the feeling. It dulled the pain. His mind started to wander, distance itself form the pain. Briefly his father stopped to change hands and then continued. For Greg it was a welcome break for cold to bite into the wounds numbing them from the hot, pulsating pain.

He had no idea how long his father beat him and he no longer cared. He was just too tired and too cold to care. He had been aware of warm fluid flowing down his legs a while ago, unsure of whether it was urine or blood. The loud crack the belt made as it slapped his raw flesh became fainter, as he head spun. Finally his father slapped him round the face and told him to get up and clean himself up. Dazed, he pulled up his pants and stumbled into the house.

He managed to climb up the stairs and practically fell into his bedroom. Falling into bed he pulled the covers over his head desperate to be warm. He lay there shivering under is blankets for what seemed like hours. Slowly, he began to warm up. His back screamed out in pain as white-hot fire burned in his head. Tears leaked out. Unable to control himself, he sobbed pitifully into his pillow.

He was ashamed. He had let his father control him again. He had let his father had beat him. He had lay there and allowed it to happen. Maybe his father was right, maybe he wasn't the man he thought he was, because if he were then he wouldn't have let his father do it.

Why couldn't his father be proud of him? To help people that are worst off than himself, wasn't that the Christian teaching that he had forced down his throat at Sunday school. The release felt good he cried until he had no more tears, no more energy left. He sank into the warm darkness of sleep.

Greg walked stiffly down the stairs the next morning for breakfast. His father's anger he noticed had not subsided from the previous night, as he sat down painfully at the kitchen table. He ate in silence, while in listened to his Mom and Dad discuss the events that the officers wives where planning in future. When he finished breakfast he cleared away his plate, feeling his father's eye on him. Hurriedly he left for school, even if he was half an hour early.

He didn't go home until seven o'clock that night. He had been in the station library, avoiding going home as long as possible. He would often go to the library when didn't want to face his father. He loved the library. There he could escape his life for a little while. Where he was free to pick up any book and read about anything he wanted.

This was the first time his father had actually hit Greg. The normal his father would only lock Greg outside for a night or his special favourite, the ice bath. Greg had never made his father this angry before. He'd never seen him so enraged that he barely spoke. Maybe he should've just run away again. Go to the town that Major Charleston took him to. No, he decided, he had promised his mother, and where would he go? It was the beginning of winter. He hadn't had a choice he'd had to stay.

He was supposed to go to a lesson with the Major that afternoon, but he just couldn't face going. The Major would know something was wrong as soon as he walked in the door. He would demand to know what had happened. Greg couldn't tell the Major, he was a nice guy but he was still a Marine and an officer. They always looked after their own. The Major wouldn't believe him because he and his father were friends.

Greg was totally ashamed of himself, he'd allowed himself to be beaten. He didn't want anyone to know how humiliated he felt, how he was totally alone. He hated himself, hated the fact that he felt so humiliated. Even when he had stood up for himself he had been beaten, his dad as stronger. His mind wandered in his depression, trying to find someway to escape his father.

Suddenly he found an answer, death. He could die and everything would stop, all the shame and embarrassment, just gone. His father couldn't hurt him anymore, he wouldn't be alone, and there would just be nothing. No feeling, no pain just nothing. His only problem was how. Jump off a building? No didn't like heights. Drowning, that was suppose to be peaceful way to go… no body of water near by. Shooting himself, that would work and he knew where his father's kept his service pistol and the ammunition. Decision made he stood up and strode out of the library with a new found confidence. Nothing could hurt him now, he'd found his way out.

His parent would be at the bridge night at the officers club tonight, his mom would always look beautiful in the smart cocktail dresses she took all over the world with her. He opened the front door and walked into the kitchen, not noticing the light was still on. Suddenly he was bundled up into his mother's arms.

"Greg, where have you been?" she hugged him fiercely. Flinching, bring tears to his eyes as she unwittingly pressed down on the cut and bruises, the agony was intense. She wasn't wearing one of her cocktail dresses. "I was so worried, your father is out looking for you. We didn't know where you'd gone. Tom Charleston phoned you didn't turn up for your lesson." She let him go so she could look at him properly, quickly wiping away a tear that was threatening to fall. "Is everything o.k. honey?"

"I'm fine mom, I was just at the library." He smiled at her convincingly. He wanted to protect her from the truth. He looked deep into his mother green eyes, filled with love and affection. His plan crumbled. Logically it was a stupid idea. He was going to be leaving home in four years anyway. Next year he would be stronger, maybe next time he would win.

"Okay." She smiled back, as if everything was all right with the world again. Quickly she warmed up what she had cooked for dinner, and watched him eat the warmed meatloaf.

"I think I'll go to bed mom, I'm really tried." He really wanted to be alone and out of the way when his father returned.

"Okay, sweetie. See you in the morning." She gave him a quick kiss goodnight.

He lay down in his bed and letting his bruised back relax after his stressed day. The muscles had been tight increasing the pain ten fold. He had wanted to burst out screaming, and lash out at his father for doing it to him. Slowly, exhaustion won out. Just as he fell peacefully into sleep he heard the front door open and close. He thought he heard raised voices of his parents, but he decided he didn't care.

"Come on, Greg wake up. You'll be late for school!" His mom yelled him trying to wake up. Greg didn't care, he was happy where he was, he was warm and once he moved his back would explode white-hot pain stabbing each of his nerve endings.

"Go away." he said grunted, not awake.

"Greg, come on get up." She said a little more forcefully.

"Don't want to go today." He grumbled sleepily. Rolled onto his side, his back facing her.

"Greg." Said sternly "up!"

She pulled off the covers, gasping in horror as she saw the state of his back. Underneath the long cuts and scratches deep bruises, purple, black and blue decorated his lower back. Some of the scabs where weeping off white puss, clearly infected. "Oh, God." She sat down on the bed, placing a hand on his shoulder. She felt the unnatural heat radiate from him, "Greg?" She asked urgently.

"Go, away." He groaned still half asleep. He didn't want to move. Everything hurt, his head, his back, everything. He felt like he had the flu but a thousand times worst.

"Greg, we're going to the medical centre." Hurriedly, she helped him get dressed and practically dragged him the five minute walk to the station medical centre.

He didn't really remember what happened after his mom walked him into the med centre. He remembered that his mom was crying. Pain, he remembered that, intense, burning, and angry. Concerned eyes looking at him, asking questions. Then everything just lazily stopped. Enveloped in warmth and whiteness, he slipped into nothing.

It was the next day by the time he woke up. He looked around confused. Everything was white, white sheets, white walls and all the people wearing white. Suddenly, a smiling woman came up to him. Asked him how he felt, he replied with something that seamed to satisfy her curiosity. He was briefly amazed at how she managed to keep smiling and talking at the same time. Blankly he stared in to her blue eyes, completely puzzled. She told him to get some sleep quietly he complied.

The second time he woke things where a lot more clear, he was definitely in hospital. He was lying on his side, propped up by pillows. His back distantly ached, he felt a small prick on the inside of his elbow. Wondering what it was, he looked down. There was a bit of clear plastic tubing, which then disappeared under a bandage. Just as Greg was about to pull of the bandage to find out what was underneath a man wearing a white coat over the top of a blue uniform, which identified him as in the Air Force, sat down on a stool next to him. He looked stern like his father, although there was a hint of softness, and maybe even compassion in his eyes.

"Gregory, how are you feeling?" the doctor asked. Greg hide a flinch as the doctor picked up his wrist and curled his fingers around it.

"It's Greg." He said hoarsely, his throat was dry and sore.

"Oh, right." His voice, soften but his eyes remained firm. Instantly Greg decided he didn't like this guy. "Greg, how did you get those marks on your back?"

"I can't remember." He said flatly, suspicious of the doctor.

"Your going to have to better than that, how did you get beaten Greg?" the Air Force doctor persisted.

"I don't remember." Greg shrugged giving the doc his full 'don't push it' look. The doctor nodded, disappointed and frustrated.

"You have some intriguing injuries Greg. On your front you have a bruise running straight across you're rib cage, a size ten boot print between your shoulder blades and an interesting assortment of long thin bruising and shallow cuts to the skin on your lower back and buttocks. That's quite a brutal attack don't you think." Greg stared at the doctor, silently waiting for him to get to the point. "You're quite the actor Greg, hiding that much pain must have been hard. Even your mother was fooled. She was so shocked she insisted that the police were called. They want to speak to you too." the doctor looked at Greg as if he was expecting an answer. When he didn't the doctor showed them in anyway.

The police came and went with nothing. Greg had said only that he couldn't remember what happened. Like the doctor, they were suspicious, however they had no evidence. He didn't want them to know. He didn't want to be judged or looked at, felt sorry for or labelled as a weakling. If he told, he couldn't control the spread of information. This way he had some control over the situation, if he said what really happened then things would be taken out of his hands. Decisions would be make for him and he would have no choice, he didn't want that. So he said nothing.

"Hi honey, how are you feeling? I hope you've thanked Dr Preswick." His mother called and strode right up to his bed.

"Yes, Mrs House we where just having a most enlightening chat." Dr Preswick lied smoothly. "Greg is on the mend, I think a couple more days rest and antibiotics and he'll be just fine." He exaggerated, looking at his watch "I must be off, if you ever need me just ask one of the nurses and they will find me. I shall talk to you tomorrow Greg." Greg watched as Dr Preswick and his father exchanged hostile glares at each other. It was clear what the doctor thought of his father.

The next afternoon, Greg was lying peaceful on his side facing the door to the ward, as his father stormed in. He demanded to see Dr Preswick. The nurse on duty pointed him towards the office at the end of the ward, just next to his bed. Greg pretended to be asleep as his father stormed past, he didn't want to face his father alone.

"How dare you!" his father shouted at Dr Preswick, once he was inside the office with the door closed. It didn't make much difference as Greg could still hear everything.

"Captain House please, this is a hospital."

"You are accusing me of assaulting my son!"

"Captain House." Dr Preswick said forcefully. "The types of injuries are consistent with being beaten with a belt. The date the injury occurred and your son's whereabouts. It could have only been you, Captain House." There was a brief pause as his father thought out his predicament. "Now Captain House I want five hundred dollars and these photographs of your son's injuries that were taken on his admission. They clearly show a sickening image of brutality." There was a pause. "Your brutality, Captain House. Five hundred dollars and these will never become public. I assume that like your position here?"

"You want a bribe?"

"No, I think it's more private justice."

"The police found no evidence that they could use to prosecute anyone."

"You don't need a prosecution to ruin a career. There is enough evidence to get some serious questions coming your way. For example the boot print is a size ten. The same as yours, the new belt that you quested from stores two days ago." Dr Preswick, said forcefully. There was a pause as his father thought things over.

"I was disciplining my son!" Captain House snarled at the doctor. "Which is none of your business."

"Captain House your son nearly died two days ago." Growled Dr Preswick.

"At no fault of mine."

"No, you just gave him the wounds that then got infected." Dr Preswick spat out. There was a pause. "Captain House I want five hundred dollars for my silence or I go straight your Commanding Officer and the Military Police. Do we understand each other?" Greg never heard the answer to that as his father stormed out the office and out of the ward.

There was a sharp knock on the office door. Dr Cuddy looked up from latest budget reports.

"Dr Cuddy, is this a good time?" A tall dark haired man stood in her doorway. He sharp masculine features, and deep brown eyes. He would have been quite attractive, if it wasn't for the large Roman nose. If she had to guess his age it could be anywhere between twenty and thirty- five. He stood with an air of authority and slimy confidence that only someone that was used to throwing their weight around could master. She signed; she didn't want to deal with anyone today. Although she knew security would inform the police, as the hospital has a policy that states that every attack on a member of staff had to be reported. She wanted time to think to find out what really happened herself, before the police and the media arrived, giving time for the PR department to draw up a statement, just in case.

"Mr?"

"Actually, its Detective." He smirked "I'm Detective Roderick."

"Seriously?" She asked a hint of a smile on her face. As she heard House's voice inside her head mock the ridiculous name. "Got any ID?" She asked, trying to remain professional. She watched as the young detective approached her desk pulling out his ID for her close examination. Clearly annoyed for not being trusted.

"I'd like to question some of your employees about the assaults against a…" He pulled out his notebook and read the names "Dr House and Mr House, are they related by any chance?" She signally for him to sit down.

"Yes, Dr House is Mr House's son."

"I need to talk with both Mr House and Dr House. Where can I find them?"

"Unfortunately Dr House, due to his injuries and a pre-existing condition he will be unable to comment today. However for Mr House you will have to speak to his attending physician, Dr Kaplan."

"Who his Dr House's attending physician?"

"I am."

"Dr Cuddy I will need…" She stood up abruptly, from her desk interrupting the young detective.

"Look detective, it is three o'clock on a Friday afternoon. I have many things to do as does my staff. I appreciate that you need to do your job, however I also need to do mine. I suggest that you do what you can tonight and then come back in the morning. Neither Mr House nor Dr House will be going anywhere tonight." She glared at him forcefully, showing her conviction. "If you need anything please leave it with my assistant and I will deal with it as soon as I can, I am sure you know where you can find the security department." She walked round her ornate, hardwood desk to show the detective out of her office.

"Yes, thank you Dr Cuddy for you're time." The detective closed his notebook and walked to the door. "Dr Cuddy here's my card. In case you want to get in touch." He left, closing the door behind him. Cuddy watched him exit the clinic and turn towards the elevators. She walked back to her desk and picked up the phone, to warn the diagnostic team of their imminent guest.

A/N: Thank you to all the people who have helped me with this huge chapter, Padawan Jan-AQ, Rosi92 and Juliabohemian. You guys have all been great and incredibly understanding. Special thanks to Julia, as she gave me a well needed kick up the rear end for being lazy, about research, among other things.

PH


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